The Artifact Hunters

by Janet Fox

“Well, we can’t scour the entire castle,” Willow sniped. “We’re a wight, not a gruagach.”

  “We need to find Colin and then stay together in a safe place,” Amelie said.

  “What’s safe?” muttered Leo.

  “This is my fault,” Isaac said, sinking against the wall. “This is all because of the monster that’s been hunting me. I brought these problems here.”

  They were all silent for a moment. Then Leo offered, with a slightly shaky voice, “I said before, and I really mean it, that even though I’m scared out of my wits, I’m with you.” Leo squared his shoulders and forced a smile.

  “Me too,” said Amelie.

  “And me,” said Kat. And she added in a low voice, “Though I’ve got no idea how we’re going to conquer the problems.”

  “Salt and iron,” Willow sang. “Salt and iron.”

  “What’s that?” Isaac asked.

  “Yes! That’s great, Willow,” Leo said, brightening. “Both salt and iron repel evil spirits. Both would repel a dark fae. We need to surround ourselves with salt and iron.”

  “The kitchen. That’s where we’ll find both,” Kat breathed. Then she straightened, becoming her officious self again. “Right. We’ll fortify ourselves in the kitchen. We’ll be safe there until we can figure out our strategy. But we have to find Colin. Leo. You go to the top two floors. I’ll take the middle two. Isaac, you take the ground floor. Amelie, you and Willow go to the kitchen and help Lark in gathering salt and iron. We’ll rendezvous in the kitchen in thirty minutes.”

  “Do we just leave him here?” Leo asked, pointing at Baines.

  Kat tapped Baines with her finger. Ping, ping. “He won’t be going anywhere, and since he’s made of gold, he’ll be impervious to almost anything.”

  “Wish I could say the same about us,” Leo said, and Isaac silently agreed.

  * * *

  * * *

  Rookskill had a mind of its own. Isaac even wondered whether it conspired to trick. He remembered what Kat had said about Rookskill and magic. That it was filled with old magic. That magic stuck to places, like lint.

  Well, then. Magic—the confusing kind—was clinging to these walls, because Isaac was well and thoroughly lost in no time.

  He twisted and turned down one strange corridor after another, up one set of stairs and then down another, getting more and more lost. The ancient men and women in the portraits glowered and then sneered and then seemed to be openly laughing.

  He broke into a trot, turning this way and that, and then he stopped to catch his breath.

  “Colin?”

  Nothing. Not even an echo.

  He turned and trotted back and was surprised when the corridor dead-ended. On his left was a door, with a narrow, twisting, winding flight of stairs behind it.

  These stairs led him up to a part of the castle he hadn’t yet seen, and he entered a long, almost empty room with rough stone walls and no portraits, just a few tattered tapestries. The only light came from the far end, filtering down through a high opening. Isaac stood for a moment.

  And then his head filled with an aching hum. A familiar hum, but painful, as someone stepped out of the shadows.

  “Colin, thank goodness,” Isaac said, relieved. “You must come with me. We must stick together and protect the castle, and there’s a dragon you need to speak to . . .” Then he paused. “Um, Colin? What in heaven . . .”

  Isaac took a step backward.

  Colin stood at the far end of the room with a dog. Or a something. Because this was not Canut. This dog that looked a bit like Canut bristled with fur, and its eyes shone with a bluish spark. It had a sharp-toothed grin and its feet were the size of one of Lark’s platters.

  Isaac’s head throbbed.

  “That is not Canut.”

  “No.” Colin smiled. “This is Daemon.” He put his hand on the beast’s back. “He’s a dire wolf.”

  “A . . .”

  “I heard him scratching at the door and it’s so nasty outside, don’t you think?” Then Colin grinned, and a chill ran down Isaac’s spine. It was only for an instant. Just a flash. A shift in Colin’s face. A spark of red in one of his eyes.

  “We have been looking for you,” Isaac said uncertainly.

  “Oh, and I’ve been looking for you, too, for ever so long. And here you are.” Colin took a step toward Isaac.

  Isaac took a step back.

  “What’s wrong, Isaac?”

  Isaac stepped back again, placing his hand on the wall, trying to find the door. This was not Colin. This was awful. An enormous threat emanated from this small boy and his giant dire wolf. Isaac groped for a way to escape.

  Colin lifted his face and he sniffed the air, and Isaac shuddered as Colin’s voice dropped an octave. “I’ve been looking a long, long time for you.”

  Isaac’s fumbling fingers found a door handle.

  Daemon growled. Colin frowned.

  Isaac twisted the knob and pushed, and fell into the dark space, slamming the door and throwing the iron bolt that was on the other side, just as the wolf threw its body against the door with a thud.

  Isaac leaned against the door, which was thick and old. He could hear the wolf as it scrabbled and the curses as Colin-not-Colin tried to open the door.

  As Isaac’s eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in the stairwell again, and he moved fast, running, turning downward in a tight spiral. The stairs were no wider than his shoulders, and the stairwell and steps were stone. Down and down and down and at least he could breathe again as the noises behind him faded, and he wondered what had happened to Colin.

  He was certainly spelled. But by what? And how?

  Isaac lost count of the steps.

  He needed to get to the others. He wanted to find out if Kat knew some spell that would free Colin. Isaac hoped he was heading in the direction of the kitchen but this castle was so mysterious . . .

  The stonework became solid rock. The stairwell was carved into the bedrock itself. Isaac was deep inside the earth beneath the castle and nowhere near the kitchen.

  Isaac stopped and leaned against the rock wall, breathing hard. What was happening in Rookskill, he was sure, was his fault.

  But what, if anything, could Isaac Wolf do about it all?

  Something had taken over Colin.

  That storm outside wasn’t natural.

  A dragon perched in the trees.

  Whatever happened to poor Miss Gumble was magic, of the bad kind.

  If Isaac was an amplifier, if he could make magic stronger—good and bad magic—he needed to control it at all costs. Because he was sure that not only had evil followed him to Rookskill, he could make—why, he might already have made—the evil worse.

  * * *

  * * *

  Isaac pushed away from the wall and went down the steps, faster this time. Down and down until abruptly he reached the bottom, facing a great wood door with iron strap hinges and a ring latch. He pulled and the door groaned. He had to tug hard several times to open it wide enough for him to pass through.

  The castle—for good or for ill—had led him here. He was meant to be here. Yes, there it was, that hum again, his signal that magic was near. Of the good kind, he hoped.

  He squeezed through into pitch-darkness.

  It was cold, so cold that he wrapped his arms over his chest. It smelled musty, metallic, and old.

  His feet clapped against a stone floor. As he stepped inside, a pale light grew, reminding him of the light that grew inside the Vault, although this light was blue and luminescent. He took another step and gasped.

  The room was long and narrow, and the ceiling disappeared into shadow. Lining the walls of the room were figures facing the center, two rows of suits of armor, glinting faintly from their pedestals. The walls behind them were covered with armaments of war—pikes a
nd staffs, shields and banners, axes and blades.

  “An armory,” Isaac said into the space. It was cold enough for him to see his breath.

  Each of the knights was a little different. They stood straight, staring through helmet eye-slits. Isaac admired the workmanship, the intricate joints, the way the metal was bent to deflect a strike, the tight piecing at shoulders and hips. He walked slowly down the rows.

  Then came a noise from behind him, and he turned, fast, fearing Colin-not-Colin and that wolf.

  But, no.

  One of the knights was no longer standing on his pedestal. One of the knights was now standing in the middle of the room.

  Facing Isaac.

  With a raised sword.

  CHAPTER 42

  Isaac

  1942

  Isaac braced, staring straight into the knight’s empty visor. His hand went to his pocket. There was the watch, and the Adder Stone cuff. Then he pressed his hand to the pendant, cold and hard against his skin. He had magic. “So. What will it be?” he asked the knight.

  The knight remained silent. It stood completely still, a ghost knight in heavy armor raising a great sword.

  For an instant Isaac wondered whether he should go for one of the pikes fastened to the wall. But that was not his skill. He didn’t know how to fight hand to hand. His skill was . . .

  He pressed the pendant again and this time took the hum and amplified it the way he had with Kat and Amelie.

  The blue light in the room began to grow. The knight began to move, taking a step toward Isaac.

  “That is not what I had in mind,” Isaac muttered. But he stood his ground. Squared his shoulders. He did not try to disappear or shrink away, but instead stiffened and braced and clenched his fists. The magical power that he could amplify—he could feel it, bright and good, so he knew it was not evil—zinged through him, and he even imagined he might be glowing. “But this is,” he said out loud.

  The knight paused and turned the sword in his gloved hands until he held the blade so that the hilt faced Isaac. Then he went down on one knee, slower than slow, with a clinking and creaking, until his knee clattered on the stone floor. The knight inclined his head.

  Isaac had seen plenty of pictures. Medieval history was his favorite. This was the image of a knight swearing fealty. Surprise and pleasure flooded Isaac.

  Isaac took a step toward the knight, and that’s when he saw it. The sigil that the knight wore, embroidered on the tattered tunic that hung over his armor, was the eternity knot.

  “Ha!” The small laugh escaped Isaac, because he could also see that the eternity knot was carved into the bronze hilt of the sword, the hilt that was within Isaac’s reach. He wrapped his hand around it, the eternity knot imprinting on his palm.

  The knight released the sword, and Isaac Wolf stood in the middle of the armory facing a ghost knight performing an homage on bended knee, and Isaac held a (very heavy) sword in his right hand.

  He grasped the sword in both hands so as not to drop it, and even more energy surged through him, as if the sword itself fed him with a powerful force.

  The knight straightened and stood and waited. The entire space around Isaac waited as the magic hummed through him until his arms began to shake with the strain and he lowered the sword until the point touched the floor and he could hold it with his left hand on the hilt. He took a deep breath.

  When Isaac heard the pop in the air behind him, he didn’t jump.

  “What is it, Willow?” Isaac asked without turning.

  “Ah,” the wight said. “You knew it was us. Splendid. We’ve come to fill you in.” Willow flitted around until they hung in the air above the knight’s shoulder. “We’ve been around here for a long time. Maybe even since the very, very beginning. Since before the beginning.” Willow paused. “We’re fond of Rookskill.”

  Isaac waited. “So?”

  “So . . . even though Rookskill is in trouble, it’s time for you to use that watch in your pocket again.”

  “But isn’t there something I should do here? What happened to Colin? Is he going to be all right?”

  “Ugh,” Willow said. “We saw Colin skulking through the hallways. What’s happened to him is unpleasant.”

  “Yes,” Isaac said, impatient, “but you have not answered me.”

  “He’ll survive. They all will. We think.”

  Isaac’s skin crawled. “You think?”

  “A fae has taken Colin’s form. One of the things fae can do is shapeshift.” Willow paused. “As you should know.”

  “Me?”

  “It was one of the first things we noticed about you, remember? You can shapeshift or disappear when you’re scared.”

  Isaac was taken aback. “Wait. That’s what I did when I disappeared?” He pressed his free hand on the pendant.

  “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” Willow came down right in front of Isaac’s face. “It’s time. Time for you to go and find the last bit of instruction. Before it’s too late. Before they . . .” Willow gurgled.

  “They are here, then. The hunters. The sluagh,” Isaac ended with a whisper.

  “Ssh! Don’t use that word. Even in the armory.” Willow shifted and, if they could, would have looked miserable. “We’re magical, yes. We owe loyalty to magical beings. But those evil fae? We don’t go around trying to get rid of humans. What would be the fun in that? Whom would we tease? What could we steal if there were no humans left to steal from? Wights love being nasty. But we are not . . . them.” Willow paused.

  The wight continued. “Listen carefully. Not all the evil magic surrounding Rookskill has been made by the Unseelie fae. Some of the magic—the storm, the wolves, the trees that walk—has been brought here by a much older creature, sad and desperate.” Willow sighed. “A wraith has brought primal magic to Rookskill. Magic that has little to do with you, Isaac Wolf, though it’s been made stronger by your amplifying presence.”

  “Another magic? Primal magic?” Isaac put his hand to his forehead. He wanted to shrink away. “Willow, what if my gifts are not enough?” Isaac closed his eyes. He asked, “What will happen to the others, to Leo, Kat, and Ame? Will Colin be all right? What has happened to Miss Gumble? What about MacLarren? This is my fault.”

  “Ach! If you sit here moaning and groaning instead of getting on with your mission, you won’t find out what you need to know. And what you find out might help.”

  The silence in the armory had weight. It weighed on Isaac until he straightened, standing as tall as he could. He opened his eyes and looked into the empty visor of the knight, and then up at the evanescent wight hovering in the air.

  A wolf should be a hero in a grand tale.

  It was time.

  “Okay, then.” Isaac nodded. “You are right. You are absolutely right. I must get the last bit. I must find the last puzzle piece.” And he thought, And maybe it’s the only puzzle piece I will find now, since I’ve missed two of the others.

  Would it be enough?

  He squared his shoulders, because he had to try. He moved toward the knight, who slowly stretched out his arm and accepted the sword back from Isaac.

  Willow flittered back to the shoulder of the knight, sat down, and crossed their legs. “We hope you have a pleasant journey.”

  “Thank you, Willow.” Isaac dug into his pocket and pulled out the watch, flipping open that hideous skull and turning the crown to set the Death’s Head time-travel device in motion.

  CHAPTER 43

  Isaac in Camelot

  Circa 1300

  Isaac knows what to expect from time travel now. The tumbling turbulence feels, this time, like flying, and when he thinks about it that way, he can control it. In fact, he can move like a bird. He rights himself and soars.

  He flies through the past, through scene after scene, through day and night and wint
er and summer, each flashing by so quickly that the seasons are impossible to count, until he comes to a place of rolling hills and green forests. Then he flies—it’s exhilarating—to a very green hill at the top of which stands a narrow castle surrounded by battlements. He circles high, high above and then down and down to the castle, the freedom of flight running through every muscle.

  It’s a spring day, the new leaves on the trees an iridescent green and flowers blooming white and gold in the meadows. The air is fresh, with a snapping breeze. Isaac lands on his feet, gently and easily at the top of the tallest tower of the castle. From within the castle below come the comforting sounds of a household at work.

  Isaac peers over the wall. The hill on which the castle stands is surrounded by a broad moat, and a bridge is lowered, leading to a road that runs away from the castle toward a town in the distance. People cross the bridge on horseback and on foot, in and out, and he can see from the way they are dressed that he must be in some medieval time.

  There’s no sign of the eternity knot. He’s on a flat terrace with a crenellated edge and a single stairway leading down.

  Then he hears voices, as someone is climbing the stair to where Isaac stands.

  Knowing that he’s invisible doesn’t stop Isaac from shrinking back against the wall as two men—two knights, in partial armor—step onto the top of the tower.

  “. . . Majesty has hidden himself. I share your concern,” says the first knight. “Something is threatening us all.”

  “Coming from within,” says the second.

  “Aye,” says the first. They move to the edge of the tower, gazing out over the wall toward the town.

  Isaac notes two things. First that the two speak English. Then that the second wears a familiar tunic—the same tunic (only much brighter and newer) as the knight’s in the armory at Rookskill—emblazoned with the sigil of the eternity knot.

  This knight is Isaac’s own ghost knight, and he feels an instant kinship with this long-dead man. He’s broad-shouldered with a craggy face, a trace of beard, and piercing blue eyes. He says, “There is evil sorcery at work. Last night I heard a rending cry from the forest, and at dawn heard that the old hermit living out by the stile claims to have seen wolves in the shadows. Great beasts with fierce eyes.”